Chapter Text
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The sky was devoid of any clouds that day, reminding Peter of Steve’s charming, blue eyes.
His chest ached with how rapid his heart was racing, the adrenaline was still running but gradually dissipating, leaving room for the shuddering pain, as if his body were set ablaze.
He lay paralyzed, despondent, as he silently begged anyone for someone to come and save them. His vision smeared into a haze of colours, as the need to scream away his agony persisted, but when he opened his mouth, only blood poured out.
Hot tears flowed down his face, burning the cuts that surrounded his cheeks and jaw, eventually creating a confluence with the rivulets of crimson. He was finally successful with moving his head, as he stared at her lifeless corpse. She had crashed through the front window, her body lying limp on the ground a few inches away from the vehicle.
Her eyes were still open but lacked that brilliant and loving hue, replaced with dull voids. He couldn’t hear her pulse, or see her chest rise and fall. The smell of blood violated his nostrils, and he had the urge to vomit.
‘May... May… May.. May...’
He forced his muscles to extend, his fingers poorly stretching out towards her direction like a child. His breathing grew louder, wetter, as the sickening sounds of bones cracking and popping echoed into his rigging ear drums.
But he didn’t care, he wanted to be beside her, that was what mattered to him. He just… He just needed to be by her side again.
‘Please.. Please don’t leave me too...’
He hadn’t noticed the warm liquid that poured below him, his clothes drenched in his own blood. His broken legs had completely given up on him, as they no longer felt attached to him anymore.
He felt like his heart was going to stop at any moment, as he gasped, letting out a tiny, pathetic whimper when a sharp throb shot through his arm. As if someone had ripped it out of its socket.
‘I’m sorry... I’ll be better… So please, look at me.’
It was a miracle, even for Spider-Man, to still be alive after such a fall. But the pain that overflowed his body made him wish that the miracle would go away. A punishment in disguise.
‘May.. Please... I don’t want to be alone..’
It wasn’t until what felt like an eternity —around half an hour— that he heard the familiar sound of repulsers. Everything sounded underwater, it was almost… comforting. He couldn’t remember who it was, until he saw the silhouette of the figure getting closer and closer.
Red and golden illuminated his sight, the rays of the sun bouncing off the amour, almost blinding him. The broken and desperate voice that frantically called his name made him scared.
More tears fell, as he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or the fact that Tony Stark was finally here…
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He opens his eyes, as he attempts to slow his frantic breathing. He recognizes the symptoms: he’s currently on the verge of a panic attack. He furiously wipes away his tears, as he sniffles miserably in bed.
His chest throbs, as he fists the hem of his shirt. Yesterday, was the first time he had allowed himself to be so vulnerable to his emotions, his armour was decaying with all the damage it had to withstand.
He always has nightmares about the events, but he doesn’t usually cry, his wall is slowly crumbling into dust.
It had been a while, since his mind was at peace, even if it was just for that short evening.
“Spider-Baby watch protocol activated. Captain Rogers and Boss have been notified and are currently on their way.”
Tony had installed yet another protocol, that Peter had previously complained about with how many there were.
But when he figured that knowing all of those very same protocols lowered the man’s anxiety, Peter begrudgingly kept quiet. Didn’t mean that he liked it, though.
If FRIDAY ever sensed that something was off, wether it was that Peter was in pain, needed assistance or was having a panic attack, she was obligated to contact anyone who was awake or nearest to him and the billionaire himself, no matter what he was doing or where he was.
He hears loud footsteps approaching his room, the pulse of Steve Roger almost equivalent to his own rapid one.
There was something about the way he walked. Steve was confident in his strides, each step firm enough that it’d vibrate across the floors, but it wasn’t obnoxiously loud. Just that same rhythmic thump. It was reassuring in a way, made him look invincible.
The door slams open, almost cracking from the pressure, as the man disregards the courtesy of knocking.
“Peter!” He marches over to the shaking Spider, concern evidently showing in his eyes.
He flinches at the volume of his voice, letting out a small whimper.
They remind him so much of May, too much, to the point where it stings inside his chest. When Steve is at his side, Peter starts crying harder, unable to stop the new wave of tears from falling down and wetting his blanket.
Steve isn’t certain on his next action; Peter hasn’t cried like this in front of any of them in so long.
In a twisted and bizarre way, he’s almost relieved to see the kid cry, knowing that he has now slowly started opening up to his emotions. And he knows that this meant things were only going to get tougher from here, but everyone had already long since accepted that challenge.
He rubs soothing circles on his back, as the kid grips onto his shoulder, a bone crushing grip that doesn’t even make Steve flinch.
He’s a little hesitant when Peter hides his face into the crook of his neck, since he has just returned from his morning run, still disgustingly drenched in sweat.
However, when Peter makes no indication to move away, he simply allows the kid to continue weeping, occasionally shushing him with what he hopes is a soft tone.
“I-I- miss... I miss her… I m-miss her... s-so mu-much..” He breathes out between whimpers and choked out sobs, worsening the knot in Steve’s chest.
The kid didn’t have the courage to attend or visit his relative’s funeral. Especially not when he still felt contrite, incapable of preventing her death. There was also the fact that whoever would bring him to her gravestone would see him cry, being in his most vulnerable and weakest state.
He hated it.
“I know... But she’s in a better place, Peter. I promise.” He bites his lower lip, when the grip on his shoulder tightens.
He is now certain that he’s going to have a decent sized bruise on the area, perhaps multiple, but he doesn’t pay any mind to it.
“PETER..!” Stark soon shows up, an even worse frantic and panicked state than when Steve had first entered.
Both older men sit on the bed, comforting the crying Spider, for almost an hour, until eventually his sobs soothe into muffled sniffles and hiccups. His eyes are now rimmed with tears, red and all puffy, as his hair is in no better condition.
Tony rocks them both, imitating a mother and her infant, as he mumbles a few comforting words. Steve keeps his hand in Peter’s shaking one, brushing his thumb over the Spider’s knuckles.
On any normal day, Peter would’ve immediately felt embarrassed or even ashamed, but today, he doesn’t want to move. He wants to stay in this position forever. He doesn’t want to be alone again. He’s tired. He’s so, so tired.
Tony brushes his sweat dampened curls away from his face, while trying to calm the kid’s frenetic shaking. When he’s finally calm enough to mutter words out, he keeps his face hidden against his mentor’s chest.
“..’m sorry..” His throat burns from the lack of fluids.
He isn’t used to talking, it feels unusual and a little uncomfortable but not bad. Definitely not bad. He hates how hoarse and drained he sounds, but he isn’t given much time to reflect on it.
“Nope, no, no, nope, no, none of that, Underoos.” He gently lifts Peter’s chin, so their eyes make contact.
Steve has a similar disapproving stare, but he decides to keep quiet, letting Stark do all the parental work.
“You never apologize for showing your emotions. You have every right to, so no apologizing, right?” When he earns a skeptical nod, Stark finally allows himself to smile with ease.
“Why don’t you wash your face and get ready? From all the time I’ve spent with you, I know you won’t be able to fall back asleep, anyways. Heck, we can even go to that shelter you rambled about yesterday.” He suggests.
The Tony Stark is absolutely, 100%, not even in the slightest bit jealous of some dogs at a shelter, nope.
He simply feels a small pang of irritation at the way they seem to mollify the kid quicker. Something everyone, at the Tower, has been struggling to do for three fucking months.
However, it was worth seeing the smile he adored receiving. It felt great.
‘God, I’m getting way too sentimental..’ He thinks bitterly.
Steve decides to assist Peter with getting ready, while Tony takes a step outside the room.
Pepper had worked hard to get the donations ready, and he was looking for an opportunity to go to the place, as soon as possible.
He goes ahead to fetch the documents and cheque, as the super soldier wheels Peter to his bathroom sink.
———————
“This’ the place?” Rogers curiously asks.
Peter knows Steve is a dog person.
He’s seen the man’s eyes soften at the sight of them. He was studying a missing dog poster on one of the damaged polls, after an attempted alien invasion. Face covered in dust, and soothe, shield dirty and lips twitching into a frown at the poster.
Perhaps, that is why his Brooklyn accent is suddenly present. He has a firm, yet steady grip on the handles, as he pulls the kid inside.
Tony is close behind, practically beside the super soldier, as his nose scrunches up from the canine odour. His tinted glasses shift, as the bell chimes to announce their entrance.
Similar to yesterday, the same woman, Rachel walks out from the penthouse to greet them. She immediately recognizes Peter, her features softening, as she offers a small wave to him.
Though, as she finally notices the other two very well-known and very poorly disguised figures, her eyes widen comically. Her mouth operates like a fish on land, as she stands shocked, in place.
She isn’t dreaming, right? This isn’t some weird dream?
Quickly, she blinks away the astonishment, before pulling her attention back to Peter to calm her nerves.
“U-Uh— Good afternoon, Mr. Stark and— Mr. Rogers—“ She greets last second, earning an awkward “Good afternoon.” from Steve and a small wave and charming grin from the billionaire.
Her stiff demeanour quickly melts away, as her eyes settle on a familiar kid in his wheelchair. She fumbles with the gate that keeps clients from barging into the reception.
“Welcome back, young man. Here to see Valentino?” She teasingly guesses, earning a timid nod from him.
She nods back with reassurance, signalling the group to follow her into the same room from before.
No one questions the way Stark inspects the place, as though a stalker was hidden somewhere. His hands glued to the insides of his pockets, while the other man kneels down beside the Spider.
The kid has a warm blanket, a couple of the patterns are messed up, but it adds all the more sentiment to it. It was knitted and gifted from May, she made it when their heater would sometimes go out and Peter would shiver heavily, it went from his thighs, down to his calves.
He has calmed down significantly from the morning’s panic attack, though he still feels a slight disorientation.
Natasha had silently slid a mug of hot chocolate on the table, and Peter took small sips of it with his breakfast.
He stayed in the living room with Clint and Bucky for two hours, as his shaking hands finally slowed. He watched both grown men play and bicker, though most of the time, his mind was elsewhere.
He hadn’t felt present, like he was just sitting outside of his body. Everything grew from blurry to white and his eyes glazed over, as he felt himself floating away.
He jumped, when a firm weight placed itself onto his shoulder, while calling out his name. From his peripheral view, he spotted a red hand that was connected to the humanoid. Vision was checking up on him, once he noticed the Spider’s condition.
The door creaks open, and in comes a stunning and fierce-looking German Shepherd, who immediately runs to his new best friend.
He quickly closes his eyes, as a slick tongue runs across his face, making him smile, a small one, but nonetheless. He rubs the saliva off, with his sleeve, cupping the furry face with both hands.
They share a look, matching each other’s slow blinks, as Peter breathes out the breath he’d been unknowingly holding in.
Valentino is panting, his tail an impersonation of a fan with how fast it moves.
“Hey, Valentino.” He whispers to him, giggling when the dog sniffs his face, tickling him.
He has a strong odour of a wet dog, yet Peter finds it to be quite comforting. His voice is still raspy from the morning incident, but the cheerfulness is ever so present in his tone.
“Well, I’ll leave you guys alo—“ Rachel starts, as her body twists towards the door.
“Actually” Stark begins. “I’d like to have a word?” He pulls off his glasses, before tilting his head.
“Oh- Uh, of course...!” Rachel agrees anxiously, leading them both outside of the room.
Steve eyes them quickly, before he diverts his attention to the duo in front of him. He reaches a steady hand towards the furry friend, before freezing when Valentino leers at him, tail stuck in place.
His ears tuck back, and he warily observes Steve, as if Captain America was going to attack them. Half of his body is settled on the kid’s lap, as he stands on his hind legs, but his head is angled to the captain.
Peter notices the shift in his demeanour and pats Valentino’s head, while giving Steve a quick glance. The German Shepard seems to take it as a good sign, as the dog leans in and sniffs his hand, before nuzzling into it, making the older man smile.
Peter chuckles quietly, before wrapping his arms around the dog and embracing him in a hug like a stuffed animal.
He doesn’t comment on the way the Spider’s hands hold on tightly, as if his new friend would disappear the moment his grip loosened, or how he shakily breathes in.
He’s only there to accompany Peter, as they play around with Valentino.
At some point, Tony walks back into the room and Rachel isn’t there anymore. He eyes the beast, as it reciprocates the gesture and Peter glances at the billionaire as well.
Tony smiles at the kid, before he decides to sit on one of the plastic chairs in the corner of the room. Valentino decides to quietly whine to get the kid’s attention back and preens when the kid coos at him.
They all stay there for approximately two hours, before they decide to head back to the Tower. Peter doesn’t say anything, but he keeps looking back, as they walk out and onto the sidewalk.
———————
It’s a new addition to the routine, but they don’t mind at all.
Every day after therapy, two people will bring Peter to the dog shelter to visit his furry friend. There isn’t really an order as to who goes, but everyone gets their turn. Though, Bruce chooses to stay in the Tower.
Within this new period, they get thrilled when good changes happen. That they’re finally making progress and the surface finally has a crack on it.
It takes around two weeks, since the first encounter, for Peter to try to grab his own food.
He had kept on glaring at the meals that were being placed on the table, as if it had kicked a kitten in front of him. No one questioned it, but they still wondered what was going on.
Then, thin hands unhurriedly made their way to the large bowl of macaroni in the middle, and Peter concentrated with everything he had to pick up a spoonful.
The first few days in this change, he always gave up halfway, when it kept falling from the utensil. He’d huff a small, frustrated sound, in the back of his throat and his hands would flex, before curling into fists and someone else would take the lead to placate him from his irritated mood.
Though, Stark ends up with a pile of bent forks and spoons, it’s all worth it, when on the tenth-day, Peter is able to pick up his meal from start to finish.
He’s slowly starting to increase the quantity of food to his meals, which is a major reassurance. Since the accident, Peter has lost a lot of weight, and with gentle guidance and encouragement, he’s working his way back up the scale.
The team lights up, when he manages to finish his meal completely and that sort of makes Peter want to try harder.
But he knows, from experience, that if he pushes himself, he’ll end up feeling sick and might possibly throw up. So, he’s careful to not go over his limits.
He doesn’t even realize the little feeling of satisfaction that shows up in his chest, when he looks down at his plate and it’s empty.
Another week goes by, when the kid picks up a brush from the table, where Steve is painting. Peter is looking at him with uncertainty, silently asking for permission and he is already up on his feet and grabbing a sheet of paper with a cup of water and some paint.
Peter sits there, brush in hand, as the paint drips onto the paper. He seems to ruminate about something. Steve pretends to not be paying any attention, while tossing a couple of surreptitious glances, but he eventually stops his own art, when almost thirty minutes pass by.
He bites his cheek, unsure of what to say. They’ve learned to thread cautiously, as the kid’s emotions are still unstable, leaving him with a mercurial temperament.
“Don’t know what to paint, Peter?”
Brown eyes dart towards blue ones, before he idly shakes his head. His mouth opens and closes a few times, before he swallows. More seconds pass by, he’s started coltishly fidgeting.
“… Doesn’t.. feel right.” He mutters out, and Steve can’t quite tell how he’s feeling based on the tone.
The older man blinks, before he sets his own supplies down, and leans towards the kid’s side. He stares at the paper with random drops of blue paint, before he pushes the tray of paint closer.
“This is just a suggestion if you want… Have you tried using your hands as a brush?”
The kid blinks, shakes his head and looks down at his scarred fingers. Steve offers him a tight smile.
“You can try that. There aren’t any rules when it comes to art, you do what feels right to you.”
He squeezes the kid’s shoulder, before he settles back onto his spot and continues on his painting. It takes another ten minutes, before slim fingers dip themselves in colour and leave a number of trails behind.
When Natasha walks in, she smiles at the abstract painting of a dog and praises the Spider for his work.
Peter doesn’t keep it; he simply heads off to wash his hands and clean up but refuses to take it. So, Steve decides to put it inside of his sketchbook, and continues to keep the ones Peter makes from time to time.
He doesn’t paint often. Very rarely, because he doesn’t know how to do it, or how he’s supposed to feel.
The week after, the kid is with Danny, Matt, Karen and Foggy in a park that is known for its blooming flowers. Luke and Jessica are occupied with a mission but made sure to share their greetings to the kid, before leaving.
They take their time appreciating each flower bed and Foggy makes sure to describe each and every flower they come across with great detail, much to Matt’s bemusement.
Peter’s eyes have this far away look for most of the time, but his muscles are relaxed, and his gaze is fixed onto the idyll scenery.
Personally, he isn’t particularly knowledgeable about plants. He likes them, but not enough to truly study them. Sure, he knows a few random facts from Mj’s rapid-fire questions during Decathlon, but that’s about as far as it goes.
At one point, Peter’s eyes glaze over and his shoulders are taut, as they walk past a field of violets. The first flowers Ben had gifted to May—
Matt quickly clears his throat, complaining about how he’s getting nauseous from the potent floral smell and suggests taking a break. He subtly inches closer to the kid and presents a strained quirk of his mouth.
Danny catches on quickly, and slaps his hands over his mouth, before he can dumbly shout “Oh.” Then, he’s profusely nodding like a bobble head.
He snakes an arm around Foggy’s shoulder and whinges about his legs being sore from all the walking.
Foggy stares at him like he’s grown three heads, and they continue walking, for a little bit. Karen’s eyes shift from one man to another, before she understands.
They find a duck pond and decide to take a break from their little adventure. It’s a large lake and in the middle, there’s a mechanism that shoots water up like a fountain. Parents are chatting, as kids run around, screaming and laughing.
Peter watches as little ducklings follow a mother duck and doesn’t realize, until Matt is standing up and is at his side, that tears are welling up in his eyes.
Has he always been such a crybaby?
“Peter?” Matt calls out, so quietly. Not a trace of the devil there, only Matt.
It’s difficult to hear it over his loud thoughts, and he blinks owlishly, letting a stray tear fall.
It has become foreign, to unknowingly begin to tear up. He’s been keeping track of every little emotion that escapes from his cage and now, everything is crumbling apart and he doesn’t know how to stop it.
He flinches when eyes are on him, they’ve moved to an area where they are less likely to be stared at and Matt decides to take this opportunity to remove his glasses. Vacant, knowing eyes convey the message.
He’s shared the story of his father, Jack Murdock. A man who kept getting back up, no matter the strength of the blow he received. He could take a punch.
But then, one night, he couldn’t.
And though Matt wasn’t there, wouldn’t even have been able to see it, he heard it. Loud and clear and ringing. And for years, the deafening sound of a gun going off and a bullet tearing through flesh echoed in his head, along with the rest of the loud world.
Even now, sometimes, on bad nights, he’ll have a few bottles, hoping they’ll drown out the noises.
Peter feels it, the moment the ribbons come undone.
He cries for about half an hour, everyone around him isn’t sure what to do, but they stay there until the kid grips onto the blanket on his legs like a lifeline.
“I miss her…” Is all that comes out, broken and desperate. Small and juvenile.
Matt hugs him awkwardly, as best as he can with the wheelchair and everything, and Peter instinctively freezes.
The older man is warm, his weight is both grounding and comforting. He’s hunched down, so that one hand softly fiddles with Peter’s hair, while the other caresses his back.
He doesn’t know what to do with this. He allows his senses to catch up.
Then, he latches onto him, sticky hands gripping onto his white dress-shirt, wrinkling it. He cries some more, until eventually, sobs turn into embarrassingly snotty sniffles.
When they ask him what he wants to do, minding their tone, Peter simply requests that they continue watching the flowers. Foggy and Karen quickly make a stop at a hot dog stand, before they decide to continue their stroll.
For the sake of not potentially raising any suspicions, Matt refrains from pushing the wheelchair, but wordlessly remains next the kid.
As they talk to lighten the mood, Danny notes that Peter’s eyes seem a little less hollow this time.
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Peter sat on the hospital bed, glaring at anything and everything his eyes locked onto.
He was especially cold towards the hesitant therapist, a middle-aged man with three bald spots and thick glasses. Peter could tell that Mr. Bell was trying his damn best to form a bond with him, and he wanted none of it.
This was the eighth fucking bastard who decided to barge in, when Peter never asked for their fucking help.
Every question got on his nerves and before he knew it, the man was trembling with fear when he found himself webbed to the wall.
He tuned out the older man’s pathetic little yelps and FRIDAY’s mechanical voice, as his mind spiralled.
Something deep inside of him was terrified at himself, because he has never acted so abrasive. He never found any satisfaction in webbing innocent people who were just trying to do their job.
He never had the urge to beat people up, before. He was a passive hero, avoided violence as much as possible, always held back, never killed.
But then, there were many, many times where his mind would go somewhere baleful.
A lot of what ifs? A lot of daydreaming. What if he did use a bit of violence? Just a little punch, or kick, nothing extreme.
However, that was the tiny opening he needed, little and curious. Yet, it always ended with: What if he stopped pulling his punches? What if he just kept going at it? He was given enhanced strength, he could lift a whole fucking building!
So, what if he used that same strength on bad, bad, bad people? Like the monster who crashed into them? Who killed May. Who ran away. Who coward in fear and tried to defend his actions?
What if he used that strength to bend the bastard’s legs wrongly? Make him unable to use them, just like how Peter was now?
It’d be so, so easy to snap each finger. Snap. Snap. Snap.
What if he curled his hand around the fucker’s throat? And squeezed, squeezed until he could feel his windpipe closing in, squeezed until he was turning blue, squeezed until—
That was around the time he forcibly pulled himself back from the perilous tunnel.
Because this wasn’t right. That man was already behind bars, with the highest sentence he could receive, thanks to some really great lawyers. Foggy promised him and Matt made sure of it.
So why did these thoughts keep taunting him?
He felt utterly lost. Like he wasn’t certain of who he was anymore.
Because this wasn’t Spider-Man. Spider-Man would never pull such a stunt, he was congratulated for his altruistic behaviour. Spider-Man helped others, and Peter Parker was a good kid who listened and acted respectfully. He was a socially awkward kid that was bright and kind.
And what he was doing, how he was acting didn’t fit either identity.
So, who was he?
May wouldn’t want him to behave like this. May—
“Peter?” A voice called out and suddenly, his rage returned with great vengeance.
His head shot up, vision red and body shaking from anger. He didn’t care who was on the receiving end, because whoever they were, they fucking deserved it.
He almost flinched when the hurt in Steve Rogers’ eyes satisfied a dark desire inside his stomach.
No. That wasn’t right…
Who was he? This wasn’t Peter Parker, nor Spider-Man.
He hadn’t relented on his contemptuous glare, until Steve begrudgingly left him alone, when Peter made it very clear that he didn’t want any comfort.
Instead, he was panting, as if he had just run a marathon, and the rage kept piling up and up and up—
And glass shattering echoed across the room.
He looked at the broken vase on the other side of the room, where water dripped out and broken shards were spread across the floor.
The wall was damaged from where strong hands had thrown the vase, and Peter stared at the withering flowers on the floor, the strayed petals that were shrinking, for a really long time.
At least, it felt like a really long time. He was just breathing loudly, while staring with so many thoughts in his head, they were all so quick he couldn’t catch a single one.
Maybe this was when it had finally clicked for him.
When he just didn’t feel anything at all.
No anger, no sadness, no fear, nothing. He just felt empty and missing. It was weird, but oddly peaceful. His chest didn’t hurt as much anymore, and his mind tingled in a way that he hadn’t minded.
It was really bizarre, and Peter wondered if this was simply psychological, or could he feel things physically?
And with his mind so, so clouded by… something, he reached out for a binder clip that locked some papers on the bed frame, letting the document slip onto the floor. He ripped apart the spring steel and…
Well, things mostly got blurry from there.
He merely remembered seeing a lot of red. Crimson red on his arm, as it dripped and dripped and yeah. He could feel a slight sting, before it dulled.
Causing himself an injury hadn’t made him feel anything, though. No satisfaction, or relief, or fear. He was just there, with a healing gash. With the constant stress of repairing his body, he wondered if he kept going, would his healing factor be able to keep up?
Peter knew he wasn’t invincible, had living proof of such a statement, which meant that he was also vulnerable to dangerous stunts. Surely, a quick but deep swipe across the throat would be too much even for him, no?
Overdosing felt too risky with his metabolism. It’d most likely end up being an unpleasant experience. Not like he deserved a pleasant one, not when May—
His nose began bleeding abruptly, though after some thinking, he did feel light headed. The door to the medbay slammed opened and people came rushing in, voices kept calling out to him, but his mind tuned it all out.
In fact, he wasn’t quite sure if he was even there for the rest of the week. He mostly thought of memories he and May once had and May playfully scolding him and May being there for him when he broke down.
He thought about May a lot, but he didn’t really feel any hurt or grief.
He’d conjure up hypothetical scenarios where his enhanced healing wouldn’t be able to prevent his death and it worryingly did not startle him.
He didn’t feel anything.
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“I… I wanna see… M-May.” Peter whispers, once they reach the fourth month.
Everyone stills, and all eyes are on the Spider, as he stares into his lap. No one moves, until a few seconds passed by, and Bruce speaks up from his seat.
“Are you sure?” No judgement in his tone, allowing Peter to decide.
The kid doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t rescind either.
“You think you’re ready?” Sam prompts, finger tapping on the table.
Peter looks up then, eyes owlishly wide and watery. His hand tightens around his spoon, as he sits up straighter. His mouth feels dry like a desert.
“I… I don’t think I ever will be.” He answers honestly, before looking back down.
———————
A few days after the talk, he’s being accompanied by Bucky and Clint, with Valentino walking beside him, head swivelling in every direction.
After some discussing with Rachel, they managed to get the ‘ok’ from her to bring Valentino out for a day. In fact, it hadn’t taken much to coax her into accepting, she was already aware of their bond.
The hand with Valentino’s black leash is pale and Peter’s chest is threatening to burst open with how much his heart is pounding. Like a hammer constantly oscillating against his ribcage.
The closer they approach, the harder it is for his lungs to reach out for oxygen. Everything is spinning and he doesn’t know what to do. He feels helpless and his chest is now burning and—
A wet snout presses against his hand, and a whine rings out, as he instinctively follows the source and notices the German Shepard on his lap. Valentino looks back at him, head slightly tilted, and breathing gradually becomes a little more bearable.
When he looks back up, he slightly jolts when he realizes they’re at the cemetery and immediately holds his breath. Imaginary weights are pressing down on him, threatening to asphyxiate him, as they walk towards a well-kept tombstone.
“We’ll let you have your time kid. Remember: no rush and take all the time you need with May.” A voice speaks up, he isn’t sure whose it is.
Footsteps fade away, leaving him and Valentino in front of May Parker’s grave.
He isn’t sure how much time passes, but for a while he just stares blankly at it.
When he thinks about it, he’s been absentmindedly staring a lot, these passing months. It isn’t a conscious decision either, he never realizes it until something or someone grounds him and he finds himself back in reality.
The hard, cold reality. Where Peter Parker survived a car crash and now found himself in this debilitating state.
He rereads the name over and over and over again; Valentino sniffs around, a little curious, but otherwise, he remains on Peter’s legs and his other hand buries itself into the fur.
He barely blinks, as he shivers under the cool breeze. Valentino tucks his snout inside the gap between the Spider’s leg and the wheelchair, he lets out a small whine, as Peter loosens his hold on the leash.
He thinks about the first day May and Ben took him in.
They hadn’t planned on having any kids of their own, they believed that having each other was enough of a family for them. Then, with little time to think, they found a young Peter Parker in their arms who was in need of guardians.
Like the saints they were, they took him in with no hesitation and adored him like he was theirs since the start. Never once did Peter feel unloved, and he was the happiest to be with them.
Sometimes, they were tight on money, since Ben and May hadn’t exactly expected to house a third member. They had enough for themselves only, but never did they once blame Peter for it. He could not recall a single time he’d heard a complaint from them.
They worked hard to give him a good life and gave him the best childhood he could ever ask of them.
They always made Peter feel valued, May always bought a special treat whenever Peter got his report card with the best grades in his class. His whole grade even.
Ben had bragged about it to everyone and anyone he met, and just about anybody knew that Ben Parker and May Parker’s nephew was the smartest boy in the whole neighbourhood.
When Ben passed, they were both left to pick up the broken and battered pieces, but May worked even harder to provide for the both of them. She did her best to care for him, to thrive with what she was given and be the best parent she could be for him. Because that was just the kind of person she was.
She didn’t want him to work, since she wanted him to focus on school and to enjoy his student life, while he was still living in it. Prioritize his youth. She always told him not to worry about the money, even when they both knew that they’d have to scrape by again.
But Peter was fine with that. He wouldn’t trade it for anything else.
She was the one who continued to love him and accepted him for who he was. She was the one who made Peter happiest, safest. He loved her so dearly, and no one could ever dream of replacing his Aunt May.
He’d do anything to have her here with him. To hear her voice again.
He’s terrified that one day, he’ll forget the sound of her voice. That he might not remember what she looked like, and he dreads it.
Something warm hits his hand, and before he knows it, there’s loud screaming and sobbing coming from somewhere, from him, as the walls collapse.
All of his pent-up emotions fall like tidal waves, and he can’t stop. Because now, he can’t deny the truth anymore, he can’t allow himself to live in a blissful lie.
Today, four months after the accident, his mind supplies: May Parker died.
He finally has to sink into the wave, as his mind finally accepts that he’ll never see May Parker again. She’s dead and buried, in this cemetery, in a coffin, underground, under this gravestone, away with Ben, away from him.
An ugly sound emerges from the back of his throat. It feels like someone is stabbing him continuously, never ending and the throb only increases like a freight train.
The scars around his limbs set ablaze, as if they are fresh and searing. The knife plunges right into his heart, where it bleeds and bleeds and it never stops bleeding.
Because four months ago, May Parker died.
Maybe that’s why he had been able to sequester from his emotions. Because Peter Parker drowned himself in pitiful delusions, that if he kept on waiting like a good boy, one day, May would poke him awake for breakfast.
Warm tears continuously slip from his face, as he mumbles out choked slurs of apologies.
Valentino is barking and nudging him, when Peter leans his body forward and precipitously falls on the ground and onto his knees. His wheelchair clatters on its side.
As expected, he doesn’t feel anything in his legs, and it’s another reminder of his failure.
His failure to save May—
“You know, it isn’t actually your fault. None of it is, not a single part of it.” A faint voice that sounded like Sam explained, as he thought of May giggling minutes before the accident.
There’s a sigh that echoed throughout the room and a chair scrapped against the floor, as Sam approached him, while still keeping a safe distance. He rested his elbows against his knees.
“You’re blaming yourself for it all, thinking about how you could’ve done something to change the outcome. If you had reacted quicker, if you had pulled her out before… That’s what your mind is telling you, right?”
The twitch in Peter’s fingers were more than enough.
“You’re telling yourself this, because you want to believe that all of this happened from a decision you made. But the truth is Peter, nothing would’ve changed, because this situation was out of your control.”
Despite only blinking on the outside, Peter felt the vertigo hit hard, as his throat burned.
“But you don’t want to admit that, because if you lost control of a situation, then that means you weren’t strong enough. And no one wants to see themselves as weak.”
Idle fingers hover just above his web-shooters, tempting to end the session.
“You can’t bring yourself to admit all of these truths, and that’s normal, but that doesn’t make it a good thing. You’re locking yourself up in your own mind, just to run away from the pain. But you’re only making it worst, because one day you will have to face the truth and it ain’t going to be pretty.”
He grips the grass below him, immediately ripping it, as his palms get stained with dirt. He cries and sobs and weeps for what feels like eternity.
Life couldn’t even indulge him for a little longer, it just had to rip him away from his last relative.
Because taking his parents away wasn’t enough. Taking Ben wasn’t enough, either. May had to go now too?
His forehead presses against the ground, caged between his hands, as he cries out loud for May to hear.
He apologizes and begs for her to come back.
That he’ll be good, he’ll listen to whatever she says, he’ll never do anything stupid again. Anything—
Valentino attempts to lick his face, agitatedly pacing around the grieving Spider, before deciding to lay next to him. His ears tuck behind and he whines loudly, as the kid punches the ground below, further caking his hands in grime.
A few hours past, Peter goes quiet, and he slowly raises his head, staring at the tombstone with red, watery and pained eyes. He grits his teeth, finally releasing the grass from his sticky fingers and he closes his eyes hard enough to see spots.
“I love y-you, May. I love you so, so, so much.” And he repeats it like a mantra, because it’s all he can do now.
By the next hour, Clint and Bucky are running to his side, muttering out quiet curses, as they pick up a limp and exhausted kid and set him back onto his wheelchair like a ragdoll.
Valentino licks his hand, as the kid’s glazed eyes stare into the void.
They spare him of having to face the team in the debilitating state he’s in, instead, opting to wheel him to his room. Valentino is tense, unused to the new environment and sticks even closer to the kid.
His eyes are trained on the warm cloth that wipes the grime and dirt away, as Clint stays quiet. Bucky leaves the room to inform everyone else, or more rather— to inform Steve so he can tell the rest of the team.
As the archer rinses the rag, clearness gone with the brown muck, Peter seems to fall back into his body. He looks around the room, before watching Valentino, who’s lying on the carpet beside him, head resting on his paws. Immediately, his ears perk up when he notices the kid’s glance.
“… Thanks.” He croaks out.
“Don’t thank me, kid. You gave me and Buck quite a scare, wasn’t sure how long we should’ve let you be, but then we saw how the sky was getting cloudy and decided to pick you up before it started raining.”
“… I… I’m… Sorry.”
Clint huffs, eyes glancing to the kid. “Just because I said not to thank me, doesn’t mean you have to apologize. Just didn’t expect you to fall off your chair. We thought you might’ve hurt yourself.” He exonerates him.
Peter shakes his head, picking at dry patches of skin around his fingers.
“I still don’t really feel anything in my legs… I guess— I guess I just wanted to be as close to her as I could be.”
Clint closes the sink and kneels down, wiping the other hand. Peter’s cheeks flush, feeling slightly embarrassed, but doesn’t otherwise complain.
The rag is soft on his skin, not like the scratching ones that May bought to clean the kitchen. The water is warm, a blessing to Peter’s freezing, aching hands.
“Hm, I get that.” He hesitates, gesture stuttering, before he inhales. “Was like that too when my mom was taken away from me.”
Peter freezes.
“… Oh. Sorry to hear that…”
Clint smiles softly, before shaking his head.
“It was bound to happen. She ran away with me to get away from my old man, when she found out that he…”
He pauses and decides to leave it unfinished; Peter understands not to push it. He can paint his own picture without needing the words for it. Instead, he waits for Clint to take a deep breath and continue.
“We were thieves trying to scrape by in life, stole whenever we could… We had nothing left but each other, after all.”
He gets up, wincing when he hears a pop from his knees. Valentino’s head jerks up to nudge his snout against the kid’s shin.
“Had a talent for marksmanship, ever since I was little. You know, Hawkeye—“
“—never misses, yeah.” Peter shows a small smile, and Clint counts it as a small victory in his book.
He nods, smile widening into a grin, before he turns the sink back on.
“Living on the streets was rough, and my mom encouraged me to steal. I knew it was bad, but hey, we had to find a way to live. Got worried we’d get caught, but she always reassured me that she’d protect me no matter what.”
“May told me that too.” Peter mutters, his eyes look bereft, but not hollow.
It’s… ah. Reassuring?
“Talked about our dream house and promised me that we wouldn’t have to sleep in a car ever again. Next morning, my mission was to distract a clerk at the gas station, while mom takes the money.”
He grabs a different rag, rinses it and uses it to gently swipe the kid’s swollen eyes. They’re puffy, red and dry, and the warmth seems to ease the stinging.
“She got caught, tried to pull a rifle on him, but dropped it. I saw it. Saw it on the ground and rushed to pick it up. Without a second thought, I pointed it at the clerk. Mom was telling me to shoot him.”
“Did you?”
Maybe for a little dramatic effect, he lets the pause draw out for a little longer than necessary. Sometimes being rueful was the only option.
“No, I ended up shooting the window and the cops came and took her away. Last time I ever saw her, she didn’t show any resentment or anger, she just… smiled. I apologized for missing, but she told me I hadn’t.”
He pats his hands on a towel, drying them, before he clings onto the handles and pulls the both of them out of the bathroom. Valentino gets up and follows close behind. He pulls the drawers open, and the kid grabs a new set of clothes to change out of his stained ones.
Clint turns around, staring at the door, as Peter gets dressed. Clothes shuffle around and as he pulls his shirt off, he pauses to stare at the archer.
“What happened after? If… You don’t mind, that is…”
He shivers at the breeze and covers a fresh white t-shirt with a light pink hoodie, there’s a large star in the middle of it. Like the ones in cartoons.
“Was on my own now, I didn’t know what to do. I felt lost and just kept stealing to get by, but it always left a terrible feeling in my chest. Then, a few months later, I joined a circus.”
“A circus?” The kid asks, dumbfounded, as he pulls a pair of black sweatpants.
“Yep. And that’s a whole other fiasco, if you know what I mean.” He taps on his hearing aids, smiling mirthlessly and Peter physically pales at that.
“That’s… I’m sorry you had to endure so much..”
Peter looks down, and Clint just smiles, before he walks over and ruffles his hair.
“Nah, the cause of my disability was gradual, it wasn’t entirely because of the circus. Besides, we’ve all been through some tough times.”
“Still… How… How did you get through it all?”
Silence.
“Honestly, sometimes, I ask myself the same thing.” He whispers, before he pets Valentino and leads them to the common room for dinner.
“Thanks for sharing all of this with me…” Peter mumbles, when they enter the elevator.
Clint doesn’t say anything, settling for a subtle nod, before they reach the dining table. He sits next to him, while Valentino wedges his head between the two, eyes peeking upwards for any potential scraps.
Tony visibly cringes, but otherwise, doesn’t say anything and even relaxes later into the evening, when Peter laughs at the sight of the German Shepard with crumbs around its snout.
———————
It’s another new adjustment to their routine, but it leads to another positive effect for the kid. It’s mostly to test out the waters, but Peter isn’t necessarily aware of that.
A couple times a week, Valentino will spend the night and day with Peter, basking in his presence. Rachel seems to be pleased and notes that the furry animal himself seems happier these days.
But it has gone to the point where Stark has bought every necessity a dog could need and the kid smiles with gratitude at that.
It’s a major salvation that Valentino is well-behaved, otherwise Tony Stark would be having a heart attack.
He lays down next to the kid during his and Sam’s sessions, he’ll watch attentively as Bruce checks up on the Spider and he looks intrigued at whatever activity Peter is up to. His head often finds its way on his lap.
He eats whatever scraps Peter offers him and accompanies him on strolls around the park. On really good days, they’ll stay for several hours and play fetch at the park.
When Peter gets settled in bed, Valentino will hop on and plop his weight on the kid.
The dog dozes off, as Tony continues their late-night talks and Peter listens, while he also focuses on the added weight on his stomach.
Eventually, about three weeks later, Valentino doesn’t even go back to the shelter anymore. Peter doesn’t really question it, but he definitely notices and silently wonders about it.
It isn’t until another week passes by, that he musters up the courage to ask Natasha about it, while they, along with Steve, sit around the kitchen table.
“Stark didn’t tell you?” She raises a brow, as she takes a sip of her hot cocoa.
Peter shakes his head, looking down at his friend who tilts his head in response. He hears her click her tongue, while the adults share a look.
“Dog’s yours. Well, technically he’s under Tony’s name, but that’s besides the point.”
Peter blinks.
“… Oh.” Is all he can mutter out, before five minutes of silence pass.
He bites the inside of his cheek, feeling a small spark in his chest. “… Since… When..?”
“A week or two ago. He wanted to make sure that you and Valentino would work, before doing anything and when it seemed to go well, he officially signed the papers and all.”
Peter doesn’t say much after that, he mostly blanks out for the rest of the day.
———————
Things seem to be looking better, they’re finally improving and moving forward. They’re making progress, slow but progress nonetheless.
Peter isn’t the same as he was back then, but he’s still the Peter Parker they care for. Always will be.
Of course, with progress, sometimes setbacks are inevitable.
There are days where Peter is somewhere else, far away from where his body is. A place where no one else seems to be able to reach.
Sometimes, he’ll lock himself in his room with his dog for the majority of the day. He’ll revert back to eating a single meal for the whole day, despite needing more to compensate for his quick metabolism.
Other times, he’ll stare blankly at the walls in the common room, oblivious to the looks of concern. He doesn’t even process half of the words being said to him.
On those days, even Valentino can’t do much, besides stand near the kid and whine for some pets and scratches.
It causes a lot of anxiety to spike within the team, worried that they’ve retreated back to square one and all of the work they’ve succeeded have crumbled into a pile of fruitless effort.
In the past, Peter Parker was the equivalent of an open book. He was expressive with his features and was known for being a terrible liar. Always spoke what was on his mind, even when it had nothing to do with the context they were in.
The kid’s mind was never quiet, always thinking about anything and everything. He was a scarily smart kiddo for his age, could rival Tony Stark with his intelligence and Stark, himself, took pride in that. Everyone did.
They could always tell what emotions the kid was feeling, rather it was from little gestures or his face. His thoughts were often voiced out loud, so they didn’t really need to dwell on that.
But now, he doesn’t show that side of him anymore.
The kid looks like he’s buried in a mountain of thoughts, and the team doesn’t have a single clue about what they consist of.
One second it looks like things are turning out for the better, and then in a blink of an eye, he’s right back into a hole, far from reach, again.
It’s a constant whiplash, and sometimes a mockery for them. Not being able to do much for their Spider. They were his heroes and yet they couldn’t do much for him at this dire time.
One of the worst setbacks he’s had had been about a week ago.
It was around two in the morning, when Bucky had woken up from a nightmare with a strangled gasp. Mental images flashed in his mind, and he pulled himself up, before he could stop.
He leaned against the walls, panting and wiping off the thin layer of sweat on his forehead. His heart was still pacing, and he was in no state to go back to bed. So, he opted to go down to let off some steam, hopefully tire himself out.
He took the stairs and made his way to the kitchen first, deciding to grab a bottle of water to cool down. Perhaps, he could stomach a snack.
What he hadn’t expected, nor been prepared for, was a dark silhouette insistently barking up a storm. Immediately, the older man was tense, striding to find the cause of the commotion.
God, the image he saw would forever haunt his mind for the next couple of years. He was sure of it.
The kid was there, his back faced towards him, with the lights turned off. Only the glow of the moon illuminated the space, and Valentino was barking there high pitched sounds, facing the kid.
“Pete?” He drawled out, feeling for the light switch.
Once the lights were on, the German Shepard stared at the older man, something in those eyes left an unsettling feeling. When he’d gotten closer, he could hear ragged breaths, and the smell of tea leaves intruded his nose.
Christ, when he leaned over, he had to take a second to process the whole scene.
Peter was staring down at his hands, his burnt hands. They were red, shaking, and soaked in tea with shards of ceramic, blood drooling out of the cuts. The rest of the mess was on the floor in front of him, a puddle at his feet.
He walked in front, and kneeled down, while avoiding the mess. What really bothered him, was the look in his eyes.
Wide, dark brown eyes that used to belong to a nervous, silly and kind kid. Now, there was a duality of vacancy and haunt, and they reminded him so much of his days with HYDRA.
“Why doesn’t it hurt as much? Why can’t I feel it?” The Spider whispered under his breath, over and over again.
He kept flexing his hands, as if fascinated with the way they looked, how the shards sunk deep into his skin.
Bucky had gently squeezed the kid’s arm, trying to call out to him. He hadn’t anticipated for it to cause such a strong reaction, Peter had slapped his hand away— almost hitting his face, with a look of hostility, before it was quickly replaced with guilt and regret.
Valentino howled, before circling the duo, keeping a sharp eye on the kid, his tail was down and his ears tucked.
“I’m sorry.” He cried out defeatedly.
Not knowing what to do, he ordered FRIDAY to call for some backup, while making sure the kid didn’t hurt himself anymore.
When the whole fiasco was over— with Sam plucking the shards and bandaging the injuries, Bucky had stayed in Steve’s room for the rest of the time he had left to sleep.
When the other had asked him what was wrong, Bucky could only cradle his legs and whisper out brokenly.
“He had that look in his eyes.”
That’s an example of an extreme case, which luckily didn’t really happen aside from that time.
Sam manages to ask about it, when Peter is absentmindedly scratching Valentino’s ear. His head heavily leaning against his palm.
His hand freezes and he seems to contemplate about wether or not he should answer.
“… I just… know it’s not going to be a good day.”
Sam squeezes his pen, before clearing his throat. The kid resumes on petting Valentino, though still visibly tense.
“Any particular reason?”
If Sam were to describe the feeling he is currently going through, it’d be something like stepping into a new place. Like he’s now crossed the entry and finds himself in a new domain.
A shiver runs down his spine, but he swallows and allows the ink at the end of his pen to seep through his notepad.
“Sometimes. Sometimes, something ends up triggering me. And before I can do anything, everything fogs up.” He says it with a detached tone, but Sam can see the fire behind the kid’s eyes.
“But most of the time… I just know it. Some days, it’s bearable, I feel like I can move, but other times… it’s as if I’m getting tied down and I’m sinking again and the voices won’t shut up, they just keep taunting me and my mind gets all mixed up and—“
Valentino’s bark jolts him out of his spiral and Peter notices that the armrest of the chair is dented, a clear handprint on it.
He’s sweating and gasping little sounds, he’s just now realizing that he needs air, and Sam has moved his chair a little closer, his hand hovering over Peter’s.
His cheeks flush a light red, feeling slightly ashamed. He keeps his head down.
“Do you want to tell me what the voices tell you?”
Peter shakes his head.
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
He mostly zones out the rest of the rendezvous, after that.